by Meghan Quinn
“Ah, you’re the one who thinks they can have fun playing while the rest of the team is super competitive and wishes you’d just sit down.”
I nod with a smile. “Yup, that’s me. It might be annoying to an athlete like you, but I have fun doing it and trying new things.”
“While the rest of us suffer,” he says, humor heavy in his voice.
“Wow, you know, you shouldn’t be a snobby athlete.”
He shrugs. “It’s who I am. You can’t put an athlete in a competitive situation and ask them to play for fun. Doesn’t work that way.”
“Is there any sport you’re not good at?”
“Nope,” he answers right away. “I’m the best at everything.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I roll my eyes. “That’s not being full of yourself at all.”
“Try me, then. Hand me any kind of sports equipment, and I’ll prove it to you.”
I think it over and say, “What about golf? That’s a completely different swing than baseball. Muscle memory is a killer when switching sports.”
“Not when I bat right-handed, but play golf left-handed.”
My mouth drops open. “You do not.”
“I do.”
“Stop it. That’s absurd.”
“It’s a fun sport to play in the off-season, but I didn’t want to screw up my swing so I learned how to play left-handed. It’s being smart.”
“It’s being cocky.” I let out a sigh and then ask, “What about bowling?”
“I plow through those pins with ease.”
“Tennis?”
“Agility is my middle name.”
“Football?” I ask, a little skeptical of my own questioning now.
“Is that a joke?”
“Yeah.” I capitulate. “You’re built like a linebacker, stupid question. Well . . .” I purse my lips. “I bet you can’t draw.”
“Hand me a pen and paper right now and take off your shirt. I’ll draw a replica of your tits for you.”
With a deadpan look on my face, I say, “Not necessary.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
WALKER
She’s so fucking adorable. The shocked look on her face is brilliant. She’s intrigued.
I’m shit for an artist, but if she tore that shirt off right now, I would do my damnedest to replicate her tits, only to toss the paper and pencil to the side and make work on sucking her nipples into my mouth.
Just thinking about it is getting me hard, something I can’t afford to be right now, so close to this woman who seems to be cracking my wall with every minute I’m around her. By the end of the night, that wall is going to be near crumbles on the ground.
Only tonight, just tonight. What the hell was I thinking?
I’m saving her from losing her damn job, that’s what I was thinking. Even though I’m desperate for her, I know how much she loves her job and I don’t want her to lose that. And I also have respect for the Bobbies. Even in moments where I’ve hated the game, hated how I’ve been painted as the bad boy on the wrong team, I still respect the Bobbies as a team, as a company. But mostly? Mostly, I don’t want Kate, so new to the team, to struggle with what would be said about her. I’m not worth that.
“Can you draw?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not even a little. I went to one of those drink and paint classes, where they lay out the picture for you. Doesn’t require much imagination, but let me tell you, we were painting a tree and mine ended up looking a little too phallic-like.” She leans a touch forward and looks to the side before saying, “I painted a penis with green cum shooting out the top, rather than leaves.”
I don’t laugh very hard, very often, but Kate just pulled a full-on belly laugh out of me.
I toss my head back and let it rip, picturing Kate with a glass of wine in hand and a confused look on her face as she examines her picture.
“Shit, please tell me you kept the painting and hung it.”
When I face her again, there’s a giant smile on her face, as if making me laugh is all the fulfillment she needs in her life.
Playing off my enjoyment, she nods. “Oh yeah, hung it up in my guest bathroom as my centerpiece. It’s what guests stare at when they’re doing their business.”
“Fuck, that’s funny. Does anyone ever say anything?”
“My mom was very appalled when she saw it and begged me to take it down. I told her I based all the colors in the bathroom off the picture, so I couldn’t possibly hide the inspiration for the room.”
I chuckle some more.
“When she visits, she always attempts to hide the painting in the bathroom cupboard so she doesn’t have to stare at it when going to the bathroom. I try to explain to her she’s seen a penis before, so what’s the big deal? She tells me my father’s penis looks nothing like that, which only makes me want to throw up in my mouth. It’s a source of conflict whenever my mom comes over, but I refuse to hide my art.”
“Never. Show that off with pride. I’m going to need evidence of this picture. I really want to see your interpretation of a penis in its natural environment.”
She smiles. “Clever, very clever, Walker Rockwell.”
I nudge her with my foot. “I try.”
She yawns and I wonder what time it is. It can’t be too late. We haven’t been talking that long. “Tired?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t want to sleep just yet.
“Just a little.”
My hope falls.
“But I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to know more about you. Can you cook?”
Feeling at ease, I nod. “Yeah, I can cook a few dishes, and if you give me a recipe, I can follow it. I don’t cook often, but I won’t burn dinner if you ask for it.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“When I’m not exhausted. Hence, I don’t cook often. What about you?”
She runs her hand over her hip and says, “I’m not curvy for no reason. I love cooking.”
I can’t help it—I reach out and run my fingers along her waist and hip. Her eyes soften when I say, “I really like your curves. A lot.”
Too much.
I dream about her curves. I jack off to her curves, picturing them in my head as my hand is tugging on my cock relentlessly. Soft and smooth. Her body is fucking phenomenal, and it was one of the first things I noticed that fateful day when I met her.
From the light of the moon, I can see her cheeks darken. She’s blushing, and it’s fucking sexy.
“I really like making Italian food. Ravioli is my specialty.”
“From scratch?” I ask, impressed.
“Yup. I like playing with the flavors and matching them up with the perfect sauce.”
“And you tell me this now, when this is the last night we’re spending together? You play dirty, Kate.”
She chuckles and says, “Maybe if you do the Build-a-Bear event, I’ll make you some and drop it off anonymously in your locker.”
“I like ravioli, but not that much.”
“What’s your problem with Build-a-Bear?” she asks, as if I’m insane.
“I’m not into stuffing toy animals. I’d rather be stuffing other things,” I say, dropping my voice.
Like stuffing you.
She bats her lashes a few times and looks away from my gaze. She makes a frustrated sound and says, “Stop that. You’re turning me on.”
“It’s taken you this long? I’ve been turned on ever since you agreed to have me drive you to your car.”
“Stop it, no, you haven’t. You can’t have a boner for that long.”
“You obviously don’t know men very well.”
She gives me a sideways look. “So, you’re telling me you had a boner the entire game?”
I nod.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a liar.”
Chuckling, I move my hand to her hip and keep a firm grasp on her. “Okay, not the whole game. But in my car, yes.”
“Which means your dick is ready to fall off now?”
&n
bsp; “Pretty much.”
“How unfortunate for you. If you want me to say a eulogy at his burial, let me know.”
I joke back, “He wouldn’t want a stranger telling lies. It’s a shame you two never became friends.”
“I think I would’ve liked him.”
I stroke my thumb over her shirt, causing her to shift forward and shorten the distance between us to mere inches. Her warmth heats my already scorching skin and the air begins to thicken around us as we slowly near the line we shouldn’t cross—one thumb stroke at a time.
“He’d have liked you a lot.”
We stare at each other, both our eyes heady with need, with yearning. Our jaws clenched, our shoulders stiff. Her eyelashes flutter as she takes in quick, short breaths, reacting to my touch. All it takes is one lift of her shirt, one caress of her skin, one stroke of my hand north.
Beneath the covers, her feet graze mine, timidly at first, and then cautiously tangle, skyrocketing my pulse.
Fuck.
My hand itches to make a move, to connect with her on a more feral level. Just one fucking taste, one fucking touch. Anything to ease this buildup of need I’ve been harboring for weeks.
“I thought you weren’t going to touch me,” she says as my fingers dance across her hip to the hem of her shirt.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“If I said yes, would you?”
I reach the hem of her shirt and move my fingers underneath the fabric, my heart pounding in my chest. “It would be painful, but I would.” I swallow hard and ask, “Do you want me to stop?”
She nibbles on her bottom lip but never looks away from me, so I take the moment to move my hand farther up to her hip, searching out the seam of her underwear, but when I come up short, my cock surges.
“Are you not wearing anything under your shirt?”
With a shy smile, she shakes her head. “No. I told you, I like to sleep naked.”
Ahhh . . . fuck.
“Christ, Kate.” I shift my hand so my palm rather than the tips of my fingers is now pressed against her skin. “Are you trying to get yourself fucked?”
“Just trying to be comfortable.” Her legs rub together, knocking our feet against each other. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“You want me to sleep in this bed with you, knowing there’s nothing under this shirt of mine but your bare body?”
She nods.
“Impossible.” I slide my hand farther up to just above her hip, dragging the shirt with my touch. If there weren’t blankets draped over us, I would, without a doubt, have a view of her pussy. She sucks in a short breath as I move my hand from her side to her backside, just above her ass. My fingers tempt the boundaries we’ve haphazardly set. Her body shifts—I like to think on purpose—causing my hand to fall farther down her backside so I’m cupping a part of her ass.
I growl under my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I lie next to this gorgeous woman, painfully hard with no clue how far we should take this.
“You never answered my question,” I say, my voice raspy with desire. “Do you want me to stop touching you?”
Once again, she doesn’t answer me right away, instead, studies me, letting my heat sink into hers.
Chapter Thirty-Six
KATE
I can’t breathe.
There’s no air pumping through my lungs and I can’t decipher if I’m loopy from the lack of oxygen flowing through my body, or if it’s from the man who’s practically pressed up against me.
He’s different, lying here next to me. Instead of the short-tempered man I’ve become accustomed to, I’m experiencing a patient, interested, and beautifully vulnerable man, whose touch lights me up inside like no one else ever has.
I should stop rubbing my feet with his or staring into his expressive eyes or letting him run his fingers along my skin, but for the life of me, I can’t tell him to stop.
Because I don’t want him to.
I want to know what it’s like to be worshipped by this man.
It’s why I move closer.
It’s why I find my hand resting on his chest.
And it’s why I hear myself saying, “You can touch me.”
I’m not sure if he hears me right away, because he doesn’t move. Instead he just stares, his hand still cupping my butt.
It was a risk not wearing anything under the shirt he’s letting me borrow, but it was a risk I was willing to take, because secretly, I wanted to see if it drove him crazy.
It has.
Wanting to encourage him, I slowly move my fingers down the valley between his thick pecs, over the stubble of his chest hair, to the taut ridges of his abdomen. With every ripple and contraction of his stomach from my touch, a new wave of goosebumps spreads over my skin.
He squeezes his eyes shut as I reach his belly button, my fingers dancing over the small patch of hair that trails down to the waistband of his boxer briefs. Do I go farther?
I can see that he wants me to, his body is vibrating with encouragement, but I keep my fingers where they are, testing my boundaries.
“Kate,” he groans and shifts on the bed, the movement causing my fingers to skim the bulge in his briefs.
He’s so hard.
Just from that brief touch, I could feel his arousal seeking relief.
And I want to give him relief. I want his cock in my hand, in my mouth . . . inside me. I want to hear him groan, moan, come. I want to know what his face looks like when he loses all control, when he blacks out from pure euphoria.
Chest rising and falling rapidly, he groans in frustration and shifts his hand to the front of my shirt, and that’s where I stop him, removing my hand and snagging his wrist before he touches my bare breasts.
“We can’t,” I say, despite the deep protest from my body. “If we go any further, we won’t be able to stop.”
“Fuck,” he growls and rolls to his back. His beefy arm lands across his eyes and I watch as his chest tightens, his muscles bunching together. “I know you’re right, but fuck, Kate.”
The comforter rides low on his waist, barely covering his briefs.
Just one peek, one look. That’s all I want.
As he lies there, trying to catch his breath, I shift the blankets so they fall down his legs and fix my eyes on his prominent bulge. The tip of his cock slips past the waistband of his boxer briefs, a drop of precum resting on the head, and from the mere sight of him, throbbing with need, I can feel my own arousal take over.
I need him.
I want him.
I can’t have all of him, but maybe just a little.
“Maybe for a few seconds,” I say, my conscience betraying me.
His arm lifts as he looks over at me. “A few seconds for what?”
“Five seconds . . . to touch me. I’ll count.”
“You’re giving me five seconds?” he asks, his face disbelieving.
“It’s all I can give.”
He looks back up at the ceiling and I can practically hear the wheels in his mind working, trying to decide if it would be a good decision or not. It wouldn’t be, it would be a terrible decision. And yet, I hope he takes his five seconds, because I want him so badly to burn me with his passionate touch.
“Fuck,” he mutters before turning to face me. He slips his hand under my shirt again and, this time, his entire hand presses against my heated skin. “Start counting.”
“One,” I say through a strained voice as his hand smooths over my stomach. “Two.” It travels up my stomach. “Three.” I nearly swallow my tongue as the backs of his fingers graze the underside of my breasts. “Four.” His fingers trail between my cleavage and are about to touch my nipple when I let out a long, “Five.” And then he removes his hand, leaving me throbbing between my legs, unsatisfied and even more turned on.
Not even realizing my eyes are shut, I open them to see his teeth rolling over his bottom lip as he stares at me. He reaches out, takes my hand, and places it on his chest. �
�Your turn.”
A moan falls past my lips as I move my hand over his thick pec. “One,” he says, his voice cracking from how strained it is. I drag my hand over one of his nipples and he lets out a hissed, “Two.” I then travel down his abdomen, reveling in each ridge and bump. “Three.” My fingers smooth across the waistband of his boxer briefs. “Four,” he groans, just as my fingers connect with the head of his cock.
When he doesn’t finish counting, I pull my hand away and say, “Five.”
“Fu-uck,” he says, his body shifting, his eyes squeezing shut.
Together, we lie there in bed, both breathing heavily, both more turned on than before.
“Five more seconds,” I whisper.
Before I can even second-guess my decision, he’s turned toward me and pressing my knees apart.
Oh.
Hell.
His hand falls to my inner thigh as I count out, “One.” I’m so wet, I can feel just how wet from the part of my legs, and it only becomes increasingly wet as his hand moves up my inner thigh. “Two.” I swallow hard as his fingers drag over my smooth pubic bone. “Three.” His index and middle finger spread and glide over my pussy. “Four,” I moan so loud that I even surprise myself, as he slips one finger between my slit and over my drenched clit. “Five.” I nearly cry when he pulls away.
I open my eyes just in time to see him stick his finger in his mouth and suck on it. His eyes briefly shut as he says, “I knew you’d taste fucking good.”
“Walker,” I whisper, unable to control the need in my voice.
He flips to his back, ready for his turn, and I consider gripping his cock this time, but my brain is fuzzy, my mind is a complete mess, and all I can think about is relief.
Relief of this burning ache pulsing between my legs.
It’s consuming.
Exhausting.
Demanding.
I can’t continue like this. That one swipe of his finger was my undoing.
Before I can stop myself, I sit up on the bed, causing him to drop his arm to the side and look my way. We stare at each other for a few seconds while I gain enough courage . . .